


six white wings

by sonnelullaby



Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-25
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2019-05-13 13:57:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 6,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14750171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonnelullaby/pseuds/sonnelullaby
Summary: short drabbles, usually lucifer/sandalphon, sometimes others. characters/pairings listed at the top.





	1. wings; lucifer/sandalphon

**Author's Note:**

> first time posting for this fandom, i hope this is alright. please enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> lucifer/sandalphon. these wings that he inherited, he doesn't deserve to touch.

deft fingers brush through his crooked feathers, arranging each one carefully, perfectly. his first instinct is to pull away, but he remains, still, obedient. because rare were the moments when those hands deigned to care for his aching wings.

it tickles slightly, gently, ever attentive, the fingers stroking through his feathers. he knows he could do this himself-- he should be; after all, he always told to care for his wings. and if these wings were his own-- his plain, brown ones-- he would have.

but these wings are not his.

because in these white wings thrum the power of the supreme primarch. these white wings, the manifestation of his purpose-- a constant, haunting reminder. these wings, hallowed, white, pure-- he does not deserve to touch.

because they don’t belong to him. they never did-- and they never will.

“I believe this is sufficient.”

softly, the voice brushes nostalgic, barely a whispered echo. the fingers stop, finished with their task. when he opens his eyes, he sees a fondness in kind blue eyes. his heart beats loudly, but the calm serenity does not waver-- never did. he feels something rivet through his body-- realization, _anger_.

ridiculous, _impossible_.

he doesn’t deserve this.

“now, Sandalphon, would you like to join me for coffee?”

he hears his disbelief fall from his lips. “what are you doing, Lucifer? why are you _alive_?”

the memory gives him no answer.

the ship creaks, weighty in the silent night. when he wakes up, he’s alone again in the darkness of his room. his wings flutter behind him, luminant, white, seraphic, shards of a forgotten comfort, and when they gather gently around him, he curls himself deeper into its cradle.

of course, it was a dream. of course. it couldn’t be anything else.

he can’t fool himself. Lucifer is dead.


	2. dream; lucifer/sandalphon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> lucifer/sandalphon. nothing good ever comes out of dreams.

he knows this is a dream.

in the shaded grove, the sunlight brushes spots into the cracked stone path and the wind tumbles gently with the leaves. among the stooped trees, surrounded by the bloom of morning glories, sits a table and two chairs. well-worn, but welcoming, as it always had been in his memories.

Lucifer is there. Lucifer with his pure white hair and calm blue eyes. he’s sitting in his usual seat, carefully pouring coffee into his cup. there’s something amiss, but when the breeze tug at the six white wings on Sandalphon’s back, he realizes that Lucifer’s own wings aren’t there.

“Sandalphon.” his voice is familiar, but it lacks the hallowed authority he remembers. “will you have some coffee with me?”

this is not Lucifer. this Lucifer is a fragment of a memory, born of his stupid wish. but this serenity, this peace…

so Sandalphon accepts it anyway.

his wings are no longer unwieldy. they’re no longer fledgling white, pure, but ragged, worn, battle-torn. they slide behind him easily, nestle against the wooden back of his chair. Lucifer pours coffee into a cup Sandalphon recognizes as his own, one of the cups he had broken in his rage millennia ago. when Sandalphon takes that cup into his hands, instinctively his wings bow, for once, not under the weight of this world but rather in thanks.

he considers his coffee silently and the words of his past return to him.  _how was your day?_  Sandalphon has always asked before. but this Lucifer is trapped here, in his memories– what would this Lucifer even say?  _is there anything I can do now? is there anything more I can do?_ he can’t ask either. because this is a dream and nothing good ever comes out of dreams.

nonsense. nothing but nonsense. he starts to stand, but when Lucifer gazes at him with those same kind eyes, Sandalphon can’t turn away.

“whenever I returned, you always welcomed me with this solace.” and the being who is but a manifestation of his wish gives Sandalphon a gentle smile. “now, I only wish to offer you the same.”

words… nothing but words. nothing but his memories, cobbled together desperately, jagged pieces of his shattered heart. here, when his body is tired and his mind is undisciplined, his dreams taunt him with the only thing he ever wanted.

a thought flickers in Lucifer’s blue eyes. it looks almost real, as if this Lucifer truly is Lucifer. but this dream world is not real, and so this Lucifer is not real, as well.

the tears rolling down his cheeks too are not real.

“the world continues to move forward and all its residents move with it. so you too must continue on.” a gentle brush at his cheek, at his tears. “but whenever you wish to rest, I will be here, as you always were for me.”

words choke in his throat. he has nothing to say.

nothing good ever comes out of dreams.

and yet, at this moment, he wishes it could.


	3. similarity; lucio/sandalphon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> lucio/sandalphon. he has the same powers as Lucifer. the same presence, the same voice. and yet, he's not Lucifer.

he’s haunted, perhaps. cursed. but that comes with the territory. floating figments of his imagination, phantom wings at the periphery of his vision. where his reality ends is where his dreams begin and it’s been long enough that he’s stopped caring to tell the difference.

still, no one else seems to notice. not Lyria, not the Singularity. it’s as if Lucifer’s death has been completely dashed from their memory, all the events at Canaan utterly forgotten, and Lucifer’s very existence only ever real to him.

it’s bizarre. but it isn’t as if Sandalphon cared. the less they remember of Lucifer, the less they’ll bother him about it. he could do without their pity. he could live without their kindness.

still… those wings… they never seem to completely disappear.

–

“why is Sandalphon hanging over the side of the deck like that? he should be resting right now.”

Lyria’s whisper carries across the wind, as Sandalphon sets his sight upon the red horizon below.

“maybe he wants to stretch his wings, or something!” the tiny dragon’s all too chipper voice answers. “itchy wings need to be scratched!”

not quite. but they can only understand what they can see.

“didn’t he use up all of his power last battle though? I don’t think he’s in any shape to be flying…”

“wait, he– he just jumped off! Sandalphon!”

–

“you.”

Lucio jolts, turns around to see Sandalphon sitting up from the bed, pearly seraphim wings cascading down his back. Lucio has only ever seen them at a distance– the wings of the supreme primarch. and the wings Sandalphon refused to use when he jumped off the side of the Grandcypher.

Lucio smiles, “so you were conscious after all. I apologize for not introducing myself before–”

he’s interrupted by a sword, pointed at his throat. Sandalphon has stood, expression unreadable, red eyes aflame in anger.

“who are you and why do you look exactly like Lucifer?”

Lucio swallows. so this was Sandalphon’s plan all along. to confront him and corner him– he supposes he can’t underestimate the supreme primarch any longer. Lucio places his hand gently on the sword, but his mystique fails him this time. Sandalphon’s power is the power of the supreme primarch and his gaze pierces right through him.

“Lucifer? I don’t know who you are talking about–”

an energy sword embeds itself into the wall, and Sandalphon’s eyes only narrows. “stop wasting my time.”

so Lucio gives a little. “you are Sandalphon, right? the one who succeeded as the supreme primarch. I don’t believe we’ve met. I am called Lucio.”

“right, then  _Lucio_. why have you stolen Lucifer’s face?”

Lucio frowns. Lucifer? well, he will discover the truth soon enough. “things can’t be stolen if it wasn’t theirs to begin with.”

Sandalphon furrows his brow and Lucio takes the moment to grab his wrist, staying Sandalphon’s sword. then quickly, before the primarch can pull himself away, Lucio reaches out and touches his fingers to Sandalphon’s forehead.

it’s only a moment, but he feels it. he sees it, the memories of the past, the memories of the shrine of Canaan. bright white wings. bright white light. and someone who… looks just like him.

blood. then void.

when Lucio pulls away, Sandalphon has dropped his sword and it clangs against the wooden floor of the room. his wings droop, shaking uncontrollably, almost fading from existence. Lucio steadies him, before setting Sandalphon gently down onto the bed.  Sandalphon’s breath shudders and Lucio frowns.

Sandalphon must have felt that– that memory. the pain. guilt settles in the pit of his stomach.

“… I apologize, I wasn’t aware that would happen–”

“shut up. shut up.” Sandalphon is kneading his eye with his palm, as if trying to erase the memory again.

Lucio opens one of his wings, tucks it around the other primarch. he can feel Sandalphon stiffen, but slowly, the primarch calms, soothed by his gentle healing power. “feeling better now?”

“… you have the same powers as Lucifer,” Sandalphon says, an edge in his tone. then softer, more… broken. “the same presence… the same voice. and yet, you’re not Lucifer.”

“indeed, I am not Lucifer,” Lucio says lightly. “but it appears I’m very similar to him.”

Sandalphon says nothing. perhaps, he is stunned by the majesty of his power. whatever the case, the less animosity Sandalphon has toward him, the better. Lucio smiles, flutters his wings happily in a sparkling array.

eventually, Sandalphon closes his eyes and Lucio coaxes him to rest upon his shoulder. he traces a finger lightly through Sandalphon’s hair, just as how Lucifer has done in those memories. “dream a little more, if this face comforts you. the last thing I want is to unsettle the world’s last, best hope.”

“don’t call me that.”

“hm? then? would you prefer the title, supreme primarch? or, just Sandalphon?”

Sandalphon curls his fingers into a fist, but says nothing else.

“that settles it then.” Lucio smiles. “Sandalphon, a pleasure to finally meet you.”


	4. grove; lucifer/sandalphon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> lucifer/sandalphon. in this grove of coffee trees, Lucifer deserves to simply live.
> 
> a friend's resurrection!au: one day, sandalphon finds lucifer, alive but without his memories. he takes care of coffee trees.

sunlight tumbles through the glade, rolling upon the glistening dewdrops on emerald leaves. the sky is but a circle of blue, alights like a guardian of heavens upon the small cottage.

Sandalphon comes here, often, in the dim of the morning, when the world is quiet but for bird song. the river bubbles across gleaming pebbles, carrying the silt of the winter mountains, and the wind whistling through the trees catches the soft, curling smoke of dawning embers. when he descends, he lands soundlessly on the doorstep of the cottage.

he comes here, too often, too selfishly. when his tasks as supreme primarch are done, he steals away to this enclave, on his own. when he raises his hand to knock, his wings fold behind him in a chided bow, and when the door opens before him, he sees a gentle smile and kind blue eyes gazing upon him. waiting, expecting an answer.

so Sandalphon greets, as he has always, “good morning, Lucifer.”

his tone is reverent, but Lucifer misses it, as he had always. but nowadays, he can’t be blamed.

“good morning, Sandalphon.” the crisp syllables fall from his lips so easily. those lips that had always been pursed in reserved, stilted silence, curves upward now in tenderness. “as always, you are in time for morning coffee. would you like to join me? Sandalphon.”

Sandalphon holds onto his nostalgia a little longer, before he answers, “of course.”

coffee. coffee is why he is here and why he was here in the first place. Lucifer invites him into the small cottage, gestures wordlessly toward Sandalphon’s usual spot at the table. Sandalphon sits down, tucks his six white wings gently against the chair. upon the quilted cloth rests a steaming loaf of bread and a bowl of butter. Sandalphon lifts his eyes when Lucifer returns to place a tray upon the table. two mugs, a steaming kettle, no sugar.

when Sandalphon first found Lucifer here in this cottage tucked upon this tiny inconsequential island, Lucifer had offered him sugar.

“it has been unusually dry lately, so I worried for the saplings you brought last time. I checked earlier this morning, but thankfully, they have been remarkably healthy in spite of the weather.”

of course, Sandalphon wants to say. it is because Lucifer’s power, still a primal’s blessing, nurtures the bounty of this land.

Lucifer pours out a cup of coffee for him and Sandalphon takes it, waits for Lucifer to pour out his own.

“I suppose the fertilizer the merchant recommended proved incredibly useful. when I sell the next harvest, I think I can afford to expand the garden a bit more.”

and so on. Lucifer always talks fondly of the dear coffee trees and the villagers in the settlement nearby. the village that took him in when he woke up alone in the forest, the villagers who gave him this plot of land just on the outskirts of town. the coffee trees that bring him such an absurd, inexplicable peace, because even though he remembers nothing, even though he’s forgotten everything, he still remembers.

Sandalphon never asks him to explain.

soon, Lucifer stops talking and the conversation lapses into silence. a peaceful kind, where the forest is alive around them. a silence, where Lucifer is content to observe him and Sandalphon is content to let him. because Sandalphon knows Lucifer wants to ask– how he’s been, what he’s been doing, but knows somehow, for some reason, never to ask.

because Sandalphon never talks about himself, or his wings, or his power. because he never wants to bring up their shared past, Lucifer’s death as supreme primarch, or Sandalphon’s inheritance of his position.

because this Lucifer, who believes himself human and lives happily in this grove of coffee trees, needs to remember nothing about it.

after all, Lucifer deserves to simply live.

Sandalphon takes a long, thoughtful sip.

“what do you think, Sandalphon?”

the gentle caress of his name and Sandalphon looks up. in his eyes, he sees briefly the lofty white wings swaying upon Lucifer’s back, but as the sunlight fades behind the window, it too disappears.

Sandalphon swallows and the taste of coffee is bitter against his throat. it is familiar. too familiar. even the coffee he brews himself lingers with a trace of ease, but this ground is a little raw still, crafted by a cautious and careful hand.

it is hard for one to forget two thousand years of coffee.

“it tastes great, Lucifer–” he stumbles a bit, but he smiles anyway. or he tries to. he wishes he can pour his whole heart into his words, but he doesn’t know how. “Lucifer. it is amazing. as always.”

and Lucifer smiles, always kind, always caring. always… knowing. “I’m glad, Sandalphon.”


	5. creation; lucilius, lucifer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> lucilius. lucifer. a creation in his own image, because he knows no one dares to surpass the gods.

it has been too long. this existence within these walls, within these ruins, within these shrines to the old gods. when the stones gleamed anew and the blue skies spanned the inconceivable infinite. when the stars painted the radiance of dawn, though they too faded in the advent of the fall.

this tower to the heavens, paved in vain. at first, with stone, then in pain. but still, this prison traps him here, in this land forsaken, in this realm forgotten.

ethereal is existence. the gods are dead.

first comes the fire, a magnificent fury aflame. but its birth he watches like marble, eyes unseeing, cold.

next comes the earth, a firm resilience untamed. its loyalty he heeds carelessly and with an unwavering hand, he molds.

then comes the wind, a soaring breath to behold. its independence buoys it above him, but it returns still at his call.

last comes the water, an ebbing and flowing grace. its gentleness rushes warm around him, but it finds upon him nothing to hold.

there is no escape after the fall.

but he still dares. oh, he still dares.

when it is done, blue eyes look upon him, a cautious curiosity boiling within them. those lips speak no words and those hands wield no power– yet, but a creation in his own image, an act of rebellion in and of itself, because he knows no one dares to surpass the gods.

he takes his creation into a room within the dusty halls. in the remnants of the tower of the gods, he unfurls his wings, broken into shattered pieces, bound still to the heavens so far out of reach. boldly his creation reaches out, grasps the front of his robes in its small hands. and those blue eyes gazing up to him see… and understand.

these wings, fluttering in the morning, ragged with war and chained, in ruin. the last remnant of his power, the last evidence of his role.

he severs them from his back.

then with his wings in hand, he thrusts his power into his creation.

and with darkness in his eyes, he hears his creation scream.

 

when his creation wakes, the scars on his back still bleed. but the power that ate into him like broken glass now lies within his creation. within those wings, all six on its small frame, fluttering gently as his creation struggles to groggy wakefulness.

as he watches, he ponders. perhaps, for surviving this ordeal, his creation deserves a name.

perhaps his own.

he smiles, a little, at the irony.

perhaps his creation will be the one to finally live up to it.


	6. cradle; lucifer/sandalphon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> lucifer/sandalphon. echidna. this is his cradle, which was determined to imprison him here forever.

when Sandalphon lands upon the island of the primals, the emotion takes ahold of him immediately. there’s no reason or rhyme to it– he tells himself this– suddenly feeling so nostalgic and stupidly homesick.

the forest path glistens before him. it seems endless, infinite– the disquieting peace, so welcoming and familiar. and yet it’s nothing like the silent groves of Canaan. birds sing upon the petals of flowers and life peeks from behind every leaf– life like this did not exist at the barren laboratory.

so why is it so familiar?

the primal of motherhood, half-woman, half-snake, simply smiles at him kindly.

“perhaps, it reminds you of your cradle,” Echidna says, understanding and not. “many primals are born of war or machine, so motherly love is unfamiliar to them.”

“nonsense,” Sandalphon says, but he has no heart to bite. “I was created with no purpose.”

but a clump of trees sway gently in the humming breeze. he found them once, long ago, a tiny grove of coffee trees at the foot of the cliff. long ago, when he screamed curses at the sky and sought to end his existence. when he was consumed by his own hatred, bloodied by his own madness, there they stood, beckoning him to stop– begging him to forgive.

Sandalphon looks away. Echidna places a tender hand upon his head.

“your companions are right. you are in need of rest, my darling.”

his wings bristle, all six in agitation. “a supreme primarch needs no rest.”

she pays him no heed. “a child does.”

a child he is not. but he says nothing to her, setting his eyes upon the sunset.

he counted them once, each time the sun dipped below the horizon. he stopped when he grew tired of pressing new paper to record it. days, months, years, an eternity spiralled into the stars. existing, subsisting, with nothing but birds and coffee trees to pass his days.

soon, time too meant nothing to him.

alone under the blue sky, he remained. the world gave him time to think, maybe even to atone. the power of the supreme primarch wove tight through this lonely paradise, trapped him here in this cage. with each step, it resonated within him, something he could not break.

the core of this world– his own, which is Lucifer’s.

this is his cradle, from which he was granted existence. this is his cradle, which was determined to imprison him here forever.

he only wanted a purpose. he only wanted meaning. he only wanted to be  _needed_ , just once– he wanted to be  _useful_.

why didn’t Lucifer understand?

_“you have to understand! Lucifer needs you, Sandalphon!”_

the sky is dark when he opens his eyes again. a babbling creek hushes in the crisp night and he bolts upright in reflex.

“rest, my dear,” the voice returns, Echidna. a hand rests gently at his back. “it seemed as if nightmares had overtaken you.”

Sandalphon stumbles away from the primal and stands up shakily in the dewy grass. “I don’t need it.”

but his wings fold around him and they tremble in the chilly air. Echidna’s voice softens in tenderness. “your creator left you something.”

“he did,” he answers bluntly. “his power.”

“no. a wish.”

“a wish to end a cursed legacy.”

“no, my darling, a wish to see you at peace.”

he opens his mouth to retort, but her utterance is so sincere, so filled with kindness. a kindness he  _knows_  Lucifer is incapable of–  _was_.

so Sandalphon murmurs, “absurd,” because he wants to believe it even if he doesn’t. “that’s absurd. Lucifer… Lucifer…”

but what he knows is what’s true– Lucifer, as the supreme primarch, had never known peace. he only wanted it– wished for it. even though it was something he could never have, even though it was something he never understood–

it was still something he tried to give to him.


	7. death; lucifer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> lucifer. time is a blur, but there is still time left.

it bleeds, and he can't stop it from bleeding. the vortex behind him only grows stronger, collapsing the very fabric of space.

"you won't come back from this."

a laugh. his wings fall, broken to the ground. he gazes up at the man, fear-- anger burning through his mind. slow, he feels his heart beat. blood doesn't stop dripping down his back.

but the man’s movements are languid, as if relishing the demise of the supreme primarch. behind him, the cradle spins gently, threads of ethereal power wounding it tight. time is a blur, but there is still time left.

he feels the world slip from his grasp, but he reaches out, gathers those six wings weakly in his arms…

and runs.

-

the world will still spin. the islands may fall, but the people will continue to move forward, as they always had. when the earth became drenched in crimson, the people took to the skies. so when the heavens fall, the people will persevere.

but his duty is to govern the evolution of the world… his hands will not remain idle. if he can give the world one last hope, he will give them their last, best chance at survival.

he has no time, but he weaves the threads of fate. the creation of a pact that, until fulfilled, will remain long after his consciousness slips from the world. an inheritance fabricated of feathers, holding the forbidden power of the gods, bound by a seal only one can break... 

it is white. does death feel like birth after all? he has no time to wonder, no mind to think. this is his penance; this is his punishment.

he waits. he lingers, barely tethered to existence.

… this presence… it is Sandalphon.

if fate will allow him to deliver this one last wish… this wish born upon wings--

then, it is done.


	8. mirror; lucio, lucilius

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> lucio. lucilius. the one who was once entrusted the protection of the skies and the one who has turned wholly, completely, and utterly against it.

the stars shine bleakly in the tapestry of dusk. it is into this world he steps, his wings fluttering open like feathery webs behind him. before him, the world paints itself as the laboratory of the Astrals, ashen walls rising to tower like offerings to the gods. amidst the silence, only the ground rumbles, heavy with the sound of slumbering beasts.

the primals-- monsters made in the image of gods. the Astrals-- their makers. when the Creator faded from existence, the Astrals took up the mantle in its stead.

as he walks, familiar and unfamiliar words hum within him.

_“nothing more than a lapdog of the gods.”_

_“a useless scrap. though I suppose, since you are so fond of him, you can keep him as a pet.”_

his footsteps are noiseless upon the ruined stone, as he follows the twilight path etched before him. in a room lit only by candlelight, an image assembles itself from the fog-- a mirror of himself, sitting amidst towers of books, in a robe brushed white, in a sash deep red. absent blue eyes turn to lock onto his, a fire frozen in its gaze. merely an image, but completely real all the same.

“I never expected a visit here.” his mirror closes a book. “least of all from a ghost.”

he smiles, but places a hand upon the hilt of his sword. “need you greet me so coldly every time?”

his mirror shrugs. “I thought you plunged below the horizon.”

“I thought the same of you.”

how long had it been? when the blood on his blade gleamed with the ecstasy of death. when he fell beneath the skies, into a tangle of thorns seeped with an insidious poison. which was the truth? what was the reality? had he died with a sword at his neck or had he died falling into hell itself?

does it matter? he is who he is. blessed by power, cursed by knowledge, punished by pride, fated to fall, he has been given a second chance.

his pure white wings have already been soaked once in sin. once torn into shreds, once bound and chained to the world, the mirror before him reflects his past and his future. but the broken, mangled pieces that had been wings no longer hang from his mirror’s back.

“oh?" he notes with curiosity. "so you’ve decided to relinquish your power?”

“I reallocated it. a mere experiment.” his mirror says, lips twisted wryly. “perhaps my creation will succeed where I have failed-- where _you_ have failed.”

“so you still believe your lies.”

“and you still deny the truth.” his mirror makes no movement but to rest his chin lazily upon his hand. “no matter. kill me again if it pleases you. you know this as well as I that gods cannot die.”

and so they do not.

the one ordered to bring light unto an abandoned world, tormented at every turn by doubt and temptation. faithful servant of a broken master, a stubborn, stalwart, resilient hope straining toward salvation--

and the one betrayed by the gods, imprisoned on earth by the vault of the skies. forsaken puppet of a heartless god, a restless, rebellious, vengeful will simmering in the shadows of a shattered pride--

the one who was once entrusted the protection of the skies and the one who has turned wholly, completely, and utterly against it.

for they had once been one, he will save the one who wants nothing else but death itself. -- for they had once been one, he will save the one who wants nothing else but the promise of redemption.

so he will stop at nothing to destroy all that remained of his past-- his future-- the light-- the darkness--

even if it means to kill himself over and over, and over again.

blue eyes drift to the sword in his hand and a familiar sensation prickles at his neck like a lost memory. so too does the staff in his mirror’s hand; it shimmers with the remnants of a former radiance.

he unsheathes his sword, and he smiles, lets his sword glow with a paradise lost. “there is nothing more to say, is there?”

his mirror sighs, but stands, moving his staff with purpose, intent. “truly such a pointless exercise.”

after all, the arbiter of dawn has already fallen.

are the gods laughing still?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> note: based on some headcanon and theory. lucio and lucilius as two halves of one original whole... or something! it was interesting to explore.


	9. fall; lucio, lucilius

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> lucio. lucilius. the supreme primarch had been perfect and yet Lucilius had used him anyway. all for a simple wish... to see the Creator once more.

it is twilight upon the Grandcypher when a simmering darkness pools into his room. its strange aura oozes of stifled resentment, like the absolute hatred of the Otherworld, but it is the supreme primarch who appears, red sash torn and armor bloodied black. injured perhaps or corrupted somehow, the primarch’s six white wings have become ragged remnants hanging limply from his back.

but those lightless blue eyes… Lucio has only ever seen them in his memories.

it is Lucilius. but he died, had he not? Lucio witnessed that, too, in his dreams-- the moment of Lucilius’s real death.

ah, but Lucilius died many, many times.

“so you’ve finally decided to grace me outside of my dreams?” Lucio smiles, hops down from the bed of pillows he had been resting upon. “you look different again. livelier, if you're even capable of expressing such emotion. why do you always look different whenever I see you?”

“evolution, perhaps, if you’re even capable of fathoming such a concept.” a shadow of a smile crosses Lucilius’s face, as he lowers his hand from the faded scar on his neck. strange. Lucilius had died that way every time. “you are the same as ever. a stagnant reflection locked in perpetual stasis. does such an existence not bore you?”

Lucio ignores him, his eyes skating to examine Lucilius’s body. he emanates a power grander than he could recall, much more like the supreme primarch than Lucilius himself. in his dreams, Lucilius had been a husk of their former self, languishing in eternal night. “your body-- it is not your own.”

“your senses have not been dulled by your dalliances then.” Lucilius curls his fingers into his hand, shows him the faint scars in his wrist. “it is the body of the supreme primarch. Lucifer stewarded it well, but unfortunately, that impatient man was never as careful with my creations.”

“your creation,” Lucio repeats evenly. “so you created the supreme primarch and gave him the name, _Lucifer_?”

“he earned it,” Lucilius says, dismissively. “he exceeded my expectations and his power grew to rival that of the gods. a pity we came to a disagreement.”

so the supreme primarch’s similarity to him had not been a coincidence. the supreme primarch had been created by his fallen half in the image of their original self, in order to oversee the evolution of the skies. but the supreme primarch, who looked so much like him, but was so different, so selfless, so kind-- had been someone Lucio could never hope to understand.

and yet, so easily, Lucilius had destroyed him.

“a pity he never knew the truth,” Lucio says, icy. “he called you friend.”

“friend?” an emotion flickers briefly in Lucilius’s eyes, something forlorn and out of place. as if Lucilius is not wholly there, as if his body is not entirely his own. “I never deserved such an endearment.”

Lucio places his hand on the hilt of his sword and eyes the faded glow in Lucilius’s palm. even with his broken memories, he still remembers the light of its brilliant glory. after all, how could he forget the reason for his fall?

“besides, you underestimate Lucifer,” Lucilius continues, nonchalant. “blind follower, he is not. unlike you, he knew the entire truth. he _chose_ to kill me -- and unlike you, he succeeded.”

the supreme primarch… killed him? but then, how is Lucilius standing here now--

Lucilius moves before Lucio could react, and his sword’s thrown out of his grasp. Lucio's slammed against the wall and a spear drives itself deep into his chest, golden shaft encrusted with crimson blood. at the other end of the cursed spear, Lucilius gazes upon him with cold blue eyes.

“you have not changed at all,” Lucilius says. “so easily distracted and taken by surprise. have you learned nothing from our rehearsals? or does reality make you shy?”

the tip of the spear twists into his core and Lucio clenches his hand around the bloodied shaft to stop it. suddenly, a blade stabs through one of his tiny wings and he gasps, feels as it bursts into false feathers.

“reveal them, so I can finally tear them apart.”

so this is why Lucilius came here-- to reclaim what originally belonged to the Arbiter of Dawn. body born of the unholy union of creator and creation, product of Lucilius’s cursed power and twisted mind. the supreme primarch had been perfect and yet Lucilius had used him anyway. all for a simple wish... to see the Creator once more.

had all of Lucilius’s creations been mere pawns in his game?

how disgusting.

“your existence disgusts me,” Lucilius says, mirroring his thought. “much like a roach, stubbornly refusing to die.”

“the same applies for you.” Lucio smiles, and he can feel blood drip down his lips. “but you know this as well as I that gods cannot die.”

Lucio lets his wings manifest behind him like aurora light, iridescent in the gloomy darkness, gathers his power into his hand and thrusts it into the golden spear itself. the light fills its corroded gaps and the spear burns with holy, purifying light, but Lucilius does not falter. he merely drives it forward once more, piercing Lucio through his very core.

the wall of the ship explodes and the ship vaults suddenly, under the weight of the wind. Lucio falls backward into the sky, but when he opens out his wings, they only shatter in the enveloping darkness.

so he falls.

fallen once, fallen again, into the horizon, where his memories paint the skies like a falling star, where the world sinks into crimson and the abyss consumes what remains of his brilliant light.

again… again, he falls.

 

at the edge of the broken wall, Lucilius stands, gleaming spear in his hand, gazing impassively at the horizon below. the ship is descending rapidly, its essential buoyancy lost, and frantic shouts echo within its wooden walls.

he underestimated his other half-- that much he is willing to admit. that fragment of his past should have been destroyed long ago. that lingering ghost should have never existed to begin with.

had the gods played him again?

“Lucio, there’s an explosion--”

 _Lucio_. such a ridiculous name. but perhaps, that is to be expected. Lucilius manifests a holy power in his hand, spins it idly like the globe of the sky. the six tattered wings behind him shimmer once with white and then slowly bleed black. so too does the fallen Eden in his hand.

_“my friend… will you stop at nothing to satisfy your rebellious heart?”_

perhaps, when he is done, when the world returns from where it came, he will finally face reckoning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> note: a bit of a sequel to the previous one. a lot of headcanon, theory, and speculation... lucio and lucilius as two halves of one original whole, lucilius's return as fallen lucifer.


	10. skies; lucifer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> lucifer. the skies are still blue.

primals are tools, born of a wish to conquer the skies. fabricated from the pieces of the shattered creator, concepts given form, life, purpose.

what is his purpose? but he has the mind to ask. where the others are driven by a primal need to fulfill their purpose, here he sits, at the elbow of his creator, watching, waiting, wondering, thinking.

the pen lifts up from the page and the wind tickles through his six white wings. when he looks to the sky outside, it shines a bright blue from an infinite above.

what is his purpose? is it to wonder?

-

so he fights. they put him to it. the monster before him snarls with vicious resentment, spits out a putrid hatred, destruction manifest. a primal, too, like him, but one without a mind to think. so he wonders.

the blood trickles down the blade he was given, black with refuse, thick like sludge. the smoke curls into the air as the physical being fades and its phantom lingers.

his creator merely takes his sword, observes it with cold blue eyes. a finger pressed flat upon the blade, touches upon the fading blood of the beast.

“what is my purpose, master?” he asks.

the sword sheaths itself, and his creator replies, voice incisive, “do not call me your master. you, as the supreme primarch, bow to no one.”

his creator does not ask if he understands. but he understands to not ask again.

-

he takes solace in the sky. it is much like him, a blank canvas upon which the world paints. the wind makes trails of its whispers and the fire smokes its calm; water falls from its skies and earth finds its home there too.

what is its purpose? its vigilant blue remains, even though the land rages with disaster.

what is his purpose? his wings cant with the winds and they lift him to the sun.

below him, the skydwellers build. towering structures on floating islands, tiny vessels to sail into bleak horizons. powerless, yet determined to live; purposeless, yet determined to thrive.

when he lands, he kneels to the ground and gathers the soil in his hands, lets the dew trickle between his fingers. he brushes his thumb against a leaf and watches the plant unfurl in his presence.

his creator had shown him the skies and given him these words: his role is to govern evolution.

then his purpose… perhaps, it is this.

-

he is a primal, merely a tool. primals were made to fill a role or created to fulfill a wish.

had he the privilege of being a wish? had he the privilege of having one?

perhaps, but primals are born of wishes. and his creator had told him to make one.

and so the cradle spins before him, swaddled with feathers. a primal of his own making, born of his own power. the skies, bright blue outside the walls of this shrine, bear witness to this moment.

might he wish? that the wish that he harbors will become the purpose of this creation? that, with time, it will understand that its purpose is nothing like his own?

might he wish that its purpose will simply be to live?

the feathers drift quietly to the ground, like a flower shedding its petals. and he presses his forehead to the seraphim cradle, and wonders, wishes perhaps, whether this one will look to the sky and wonder too.

-

so his creation asks, too.

“what is my purpose?”

curious eyes gaze up at the canopy of the sky before shifting to meet his. he pauses, lowering his cup of coffee, and he hesitates. because in that moment, in this peaceful garden of verdant green and skies blue, he remembers all the beasts and Astrals he suppressed and slain, all the lands he sundered and saved, and he wonders if he has the right to answer.

he doesn't.

but his creation still has the right to know.

-

it is too late.

had he simply run out of time? or had time been running already for too long? it is time. the gates shall close. all mistakes, all failures, and all that ever threatened the survival of the skies-- will be caged here, for eternity.

when their creator died, the Astrals had wanted to bury them too.

but primals cannot be killed.

not his creator’s legacy… and not his own.

-

your role is to govern evolution and to stabilize the tetra-elements, Lucilius said. but he created beast after beast, harvested core after core. and he used it to all to construct a monstrosity whose sole purpose was absolute destruction.

why? that question has come too late.

primals were created from the essense of the gods, constructed of the hopes of the people. primals governed and created, oversaw and stewarded.

they were not meant to be tools until the Astrals learned to claim them.

_“but you, the supreme primarch, bow to no one.”_

not even to my creator? he did not ask. and now, with the blood of his creator on his hands, he understands.

primal beasts were created in the image of gods, to be worshiped as gods. this was the plan the Astrals set into motion. but the skies were vast, immovable, and refused to bow to its rule. so his creator sought to rise above it, above the skies, above the stars, and above the gods-- and created him.

the gates of Pandemonium stand before him like a crimson grave. in the stark stillness, he can feel the murmur of vengeance behind those walls. behind him, the skies extend, an emptiness beyond his conception. when Astrals are lost and all beasts bound, there is nothing left but nature itself. there is no more rebellion to quell, no more war to be won.

nothing but the skies and himself.

perhaps, in time, nature will take over his role. the skies will evolve and they primals will no longer be needed. perhaps, he too will no longer be needed. nature will prevail where the Astrals failed. even with the power of gods, they could not make the skies their dominion.

Lucilius wanted to tear down the skies, to defy the god that put them there. did he truly think so little of the skies? did Lucilius think so little of him?

Lucifer turns around and faces the endless blue skies, the wind coursing as it does through his six white wings. it bears heavily on him, a burden that is now his alone. but still, it remains his solace. and still, he has but one more question.

was it this?

was this the wish by which he was created? was this what Lucilius wanted? was it for a beast born out of wishes and war to understand the meaning of loneliness?

he wonders, but it is useless to wonder. Lucilius is gone. Sandalphon is gone. but the horizon is still crimson and the skies are still blue.


End file.
